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PUSHKIN, Alexander S.


Jevgeni Onegin

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II, 6

Meanwhile another landowner

Newly arrived on his estate,

His neighbour, caused an equal stir,

For reasons that I’ll indicate.

Vladimir Lensky, is the man

Handsome, young, a Kantian,

Whose soul was formed in Göttingen,

A friend of truth: a poet then.

From misty Germany he brought

The fruits of learning’s golden tree,

His fervent dreams of liberty,

Ardent and eccentric thought,

Eloquence to inspire the bolder,

And dark hair hanging to his shoulder

II, 10

He sang of love, to love subjected,

Clear and serene his tune,

As a girl’s thoughts, unaffected,

A child’s slumber, or the moon,

Sailing the untroubled skies,

Queen of mysteries and sighs.

He sang of parting and of sorrows,

Misty climes, and vague tomorrows,

Of roses in some high romance;

Sang of all the far-off lands

Where on quiet desert strands,

His living tears obscured his glance;

At eighteen years he had the power,

To sing of life’s dry withered flower.

II, 21

When but a boy his heart was captured,

Never having felt love’s blade,

By Olga, and as one enraptured

He watched her as she sang and played.

Under the oak-trees’ sheltering boughs,

They exchanged their childish vows,

Their fathers saw them marrying,

Considered it a certain thing.

Under her parent’s gaze she grew

Filled with grace and innocence,

Humbly living out existence,

A lily in the morning dew,

A flower in deepest grass, alone,

To bee and butterfly unknown.

III, 7

Tatyana listened, with vexation,

To all this; yet, an innocent,

Felt inexpressible elation,

At the least unguarded moment.

A thought took root in her heart,

So a seed begins to start

Heated by the warmth of spring,

And time gives nurture to the thing.

Her dreams had long since set her yearning,

For that fatal sustenance,

Fired by longing, circumstance,

In solitude her heart was burning,

Crushed by adolescent gloom,

Her soul was waiting…but for whom?
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